Finding: A POTO Version Mashup
by Erik The Red Death
Summary: What happens when you stick Leroux's Erik into Charles Dance's world? A reworking of a classic story, with a twist: several versions are coming into play at the same time. Some of the plot points readers have come to love, with an ending that will surprise many. Work in Progress.
1. Chapter 1

Christine often heard her father's voice in her dreams. So close that she swore she could touch him, yet never close enough to fill the void he left in her heart.

She was lucky for her position as a ballerina in the Opera Garnier. It gave her work, somewhere to live, and a sense of purpose, but there was always something missing. When she actually focused in classes, she was amongst the best dancers there. But that was rare, and so often her mind wandered to the point where Madame Giry wondered if she was safe to be in pointe shoes.

She cried herself to sleep at night, but she never knew why. Of course, she felt quite unfulfilled and out of place, but there was something bigger. She was alone. Breathtakingly, heartbreakingly alone. And it was something that, someday, would surely break her spirit.

She could never sleep anymore. Of course, she could, but she knew that she would only wake up in tears from a nightmare that she could never remember. She always found it easier to read, write, and pass the time somehow in her crushing solitude.

Her dormitory in the opera was small, just enough room for her dressing table, her bed, and her wardrobe. On the furthest wall from the door, there hung an ornate mirror that took most of the whole wall. It was there when she arrived, and she did not have the time nor the energy to take it down. So there it stood, serving as a constant reminder of how alone she was in the world.

These last few weeks had been particularly hard for Christine. Her depression crashed torrents of object sadness into her mind, enough to threaten her eyes with tears at all hours of the day. In response, she threw herself desperately into her dance studies, seeing mild improvement in that area of her life. Madame Giry was pleased, but her legs burned, her feet suffered, and her heart remained empty. But, at least she felt something now, other than emptiness. She could not force herself to eat, and as the weeks passed, she shrunk gradually, until she forced herself to eat small amounts so that she stopped feeling bone. She was dying, of what she did not know, but she was dying.

Today. Today the ballet corps started to learn the ballet for the opera's newest addition, Faust. It was long, and difficult, but under Madame Giry's strict instruction and deft use of a cane, the girls were able to do it decent justice. Christine stayed in the corner of the class, staying silent and introspective while the other girls giggled and talked amongst themselves as they stretched. She wished she could talk to them, but she knew that she was an outsider. Up until a few weeks ago, she was the worst student of the class, an utter embarrassment. Half the time Madame Giry yelled at her about her disappointing lack of flexibility, and the other half of the time she was on the floor after falling. She wished she could find family in this small corner of the world, but there was no one. The only time Madame Giry spoke to her now was for small corrections, since she actually forced herself to focus. But at least she was not being yelled at anymore.

Tonight. Another night without sleep, another day without feeling. After writing for God knows how long and thinking about God knows what, she decided that if she spent another second in this room, she would most surely die. She thought about going to the stage, but it felt too open, too exposed. The thought for a moment before she decided on the roof, for maybe the stars would give her a sense of reason.

It was fall in Paris. Not late enough in the year for snow, but enough for it to be bitterly, deathly cold. Christine was aware of this fact as soon as she was outside, but the painful chill she got from the air was enough to keep her awake, and she enjoyed that. It took her some effort to sit on the base of the statue of Apollo's Lyre, but she managed it. She looked up to the stars, hoping to receive guidance, but they only served to remind her of how alone she was. In an effort not to cry, for she always wept, she sang to herself. The night air stung her vocal chords and made her shiver with the cold, but she sang, her voice drifting into the night and, for once, making her feel a fraction more alive.

If he spent another second in this house, he was surely going to die. Erik had holed himself inside his underground dwelling for days staring at the same pages of his manuscript, then getting up and pacing for a time, then eventually sitting back down at his piano. I need fresh air, he thought to himself, urging himself to get up. He checked the time, pleased to see that it was the middle of the night, and decided that he was to go to the roof. He concluded that no one would be there, on a night as cold as this.

A small passageway of his own making led the way to the roof, and with each step the air around him grew colder and colder. As soon as he opened the entrance from his passageway to the roof, he froze, standing completely still as he realized he was not alone.

Who was that voice? Normally, upon sensing the mere inkling of another human being, he would have turned and ran, but it seemed as if an invisible force froze him to the spot. And that force was her voice. It was absolutely extraordinary, breathtakingly beautiful, yet with one fatal flaw: it was miserably untrained. This voice could take the world by storm, Erik concluded, sighing with wonder as he continued to listen.

He had to find out where this voice was coming from. As if nothing else mattered anymore, he had to know. And so, as silent as a lion hunt, he prowled further onto the roof.


	2. Chapter 2

Approaching the statue from the back, he was shocked to find sat there a small girl, probably no older than her late teens. What was worse was that she was dressed in a silk night dress, her body shivering from the cold. As he grew closer, he could clearly see that she was holding back sobs, her entire body quaking with bridled emotion. In the last weeks, she had felt nothing, and now, she felt everything. Her voice, though beautiful, was haunting, containing such pure sadness that tears threatened Erik's eyes. It was as if he were hearing true heartbreak.

Erik was speaking before he realized exactly what he was doing. He shocked even himself, for he normally avoided every interaction with humankind except for a very select few. But, as it was when he was frozen to the spot, he was compelled by some awesome, unseen force.

"You'll catch your death in this cold."

Christine nearly fell off the statue, turning around so quickly that she was dizzy from the whiplash. Who was up here at this hour, and what did they want with her?

"Please do not be afraid."

She sat still at this, just taking a look at the very peculiar man that stood before her. He was tall, frighteningly tall, with a slim build. He was muscular, though, she could see, and his posture carried him with an aura of power, of mysterious, almost magical presence. He was clad in all black formal wear, complete with a waistcoat, a black ascot tie with large ruffles, and a floor-long black cloak. His hair was also raven black, pulled from his face and secured with a length of black ribbon. But, it was his face which rendered him so peculiar. It was completely concealed with a white porcelain mask, save for his eyes and mouth. And his eyes burned a bright gold, looking like two stars in this dark night.

How can I not be afraid? Christine thought to herself, her breath quickening as she felt his eyes bore into her, as if they were reaching into her soul. In a sense, they were, and as he read from her mind like an open book, he could see nothing but pain. Unimaginable pain.

"What is your name?" He asked, trying to keep his voice soft. He did not want to scare her away, only hear her voice again.

"Christine," she answered simply. Erik recognized this name, and eventually it dawned on him that she was part of the ballet. She was Swedish, if he recalled. Through her conversation, she was drawn from the depths of her inner thoughts and back into reality. And only then did she realize just how cold it was. Her voice started to shake. "What is yours?"

"I am Erik." His answer was simple as well, but his voice held an air of astonishing, breathtaking power. "Christine," her name rolled beautifully off his tongue, "I think you may already know this, but your voice… your voice is astonishingly beautiful."

Her cheeks, already red from the chill, turned a few shades darker, and she shook her head. "Thank you monsieur, but it is untrue. No one has appreciated my singing, so I never do, save for when I am alone."

"And how awful of a crime that is," he replied, his voice growing sad. "Christine, your voice is so miraculous in pitch, tone, and shape… But, it is completely untrained. I…" he did not believe he was about to say this. "I would like to help you. I would like to teach you."

It was then that she managed to get off of the statue, standing on her own two feet. A peculiar force drew her to him, she wanted to see more of who she was speaking to. But a few steps were all it took before she was stopped.

"Please, do not come any closer." His voice was firm now. He was afraid too. "Please, think about my offer, and if you accept, please come to the practice room on the top floor tomorrow night."

She was actually quite shocked by his offer, unsure of what to think. She stayed where she was, her arms crossed over her torso to keep out the cold, as she watched him slowly back away. He bid her goodnight, and he left as quickly as he had come.

She stood still, her mind racing, for the next few minutes, trying to comprehend what had just happened to her. Where had this man come from? Was he even real? Why did he care about her? These questions, and many more curiosities, flooded her senses, occupying her thoughts until the cold became too much for her to handle. She descended the stairs back to her dormitory in a wonderful haze, and miraculously, she went to sleep, wondering if this night was just a dream.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day passed by in a mindless haze, for all she could think about was the strange man she had met the other night. The distraction helped her through her ballet training, as having something to think about lessened the pain. For the first time ever, Madame Giry actually commended her.

"You are improving quickly, Christine," she congratulated the girl. "And you are not quite so stiff. I might be able to make a half-decent dancer from you yet."

It had been weeks since the girl actually smiled, but a soft one pulled at her lips that day, and for once, she felt something else other than despair.

Despite being quite worried for her safety, strangely for Christine the night could not come fast enough. In order to pass the time before sundown, she took a walk in the city, since she has been holed in the opera for so long. The cold winter air stung her lungs, but she felt alive, and excited. Nervous, but excited.

After twenty minutes of waiting in the practice auditorium, Erik concluded that Christine was not coming. He could not blame her, for no one in his life has ever voluntarily spent time with him. The only reason Daroga still spoke to him was to make sure he was still alive, and that he hadn't killed anyone that week. He was disappointed, but not surprised. The only thing worse than being disappointed is when there was hope in the first place.

He began to gather his things, becoming cold as he became used to the shock of rejection. Just as he was about to leave, the door clicked open.

Why am I here? Christine scolded herself in her head as she ascended the stairs to the top floor. This is very, very stupid. I should not even be going. What is a ballerina going to do with singing lessons? And yet, through her self-depreciation, she still had hope. Hope is what forced her to open that door.

"You came." His greeting was no more than a soft sigh of wonder as his hope was restored.

"I… I did." Her voice was shy and frail, apprehension laced in her every word. "I hope I did not keep you waiting."

"Not at all. Please, join me." His voice was kind, gentle even, but there was an undertone of command that almost forced its listener to obey. If he wanted to, he could make someone go to the heaven and back with his voice.

She approached him as he sat at the piano, and there was sheet music waiting for her on a stand. Her father had taught her to read music quite well, and as she looked at the page, tears filled her eyes as she was reminded of him. Upon seeing this, Erik frowned immediately.

"Have I upset you?"

"No!" She immediately replied nervously, wiping her tears and regaining her composure. If there was anything she hated, it was people seeing her cry. She was ashamed of it, actually. "No, it isn't you. My father taught me music when I was younger, he died when I was a child. I miss him."

"I am very sorry for your loss," he replied politely. She immediately scolded herself for telling her life story to some stranger who probably could not care less, but she forced herself to remain composed. She nodded in acknowledgement, and soon their lesson began.

Her voice was nothing like it was last night. She knew now that she was being observed, and her anxiety took control of her senses, her voice. Erik was disappointed, but he knew that she was capable of better things. They had a lot of work to do.

"You sound afraid," he corrected her, standing from his place at the piano. At his full height, he only intimidated her more. She froze on the spot. "You must learn not to be afraid, Christine. Again."

The page she was singing from was scales, which were meant to warm her voice and prepare her to sing actual music. But, Erik could tell that they would be singing scales for a long time. The girl had a good sense of pitch, but her technique was wrong, her placement was wrong. And above all, her voice was void of feeling.

"Relax your shoulders, you are stiff as a board." As their lesson progressed, the strictness of his methods became all too apparent. "Are you not a ballerina? Correct your posture."

Christine was slightly terrified by the intensity of his voice, but his strictness and control were something she desperately needed. The conservatory has broken her spirit, crushed her voice, and now if she had any hope of being rebuilt, he needed to be ruthless.

It wasn't until almost two hours later that he had an inkling of satisfaction of what he heard. Although she was making astounding progress in the short time they were together, he never once commended her, or praised her. It was not his way. Strictness and demand for perfection were the two cornerstones of his personality, and although he never once let up on her, she became less scared.

When she rested after attempting her final scale, she looked up to him, waiting for disapproval and corrections. Instead, he nodded simply, picking up his music and putting his things away.

"We are done for today. I expect you here tomorrow, at the same time. I assume you do not have plans?"

She shook her head, gathering her music once she was told she was allowed to keep it. After a long silence, she bid him goodnight, thanking him in her timid speech before leaving the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Madame Giry decided to schedule evening classes for the next day, in the ironic fashion that was Christine's life. She had no choice but to go, considering she was now a pupil worth teaching in the class, and she watched the agonizingly slow hours drift by in the ballet studio.

This is the hardest Madame Giry has ever been on Christine. In the past, because the mistress did not believe the girl had any real talent, she simply let her go with scoldings and a few whacks of her cane. But now, since Christine has shown that she might possess some actual talent, the ballet mistress has been relentless. By the time she was let go, Christine was practically in tears, and exhausted. But, as she looked at the clock, she realized she was late to her lesson, and her legs burned as she ran up to the top floor in her pointe shoes.

She wrapped herself in the silk robe she had brought with her, taking off her tutu to leave her in her leotard underneath. She was still taking her hair out of the painfully tight bun it was in and wiping her tears when she raced through the door.

"I'm sorry," she replied breathlessly, constantly feeling the need to apologize. "I was unavoidably detained-"

She was cut off by the soft, gentle voice of her teacher, who watched her with a great feeling of pity in his heart. "Child, were you crying?"

She immediately shook her head, but it was no use. Her eyes were quite red. "No, I am fine. My legs hurt, that's all." She kept her head down as she took out her music, but to her dismay, he did not do the same. "I… I have upset you."

"Not at all," he reassured, simply sitting and watching her. "Christine, you may go to your room and change. I will wait for you. You will feel better."

Christine looked up to him to protest, for she felt awful for keeping him waiting, but she agreed in the end. She quietly thanked him, apologized again, and left the room to change.

She spent some time in her room crying. Her feet pulsed with indescribable pain as she freed them from her pointe shoes, so much so that she did not think she could put on her normal shoes. She cried in pain, cried in frustration, and most of all, in anguish. But she eventually changed into a simple dress, braiding her hair quickly over her shoulder before returning to the room on the top floor.

When she entered the room, quiet as a mouse, she was greeted with the most astonishing sound. Erik was singing. In an instant, her fear, her anger, her regret, and her sadness melted away, until there was only room in her mind for him and his voice. She stood in the doorway for a moment, letting her eyes flutter closed as the tendrils of his voice reached into the deepest crevices of her mind. His back was to her, as he was looking out the window, but he knew she was there. He let her listen, let her relax for a minute or two, until he quieted himself. She opened her eyes, and when he turned to look at her, he saw that they were quite glassed over. She would follow that voice to the end of the earth, if he asked.

"Come," his voice sounded as if it were electrically charged, and every fiber of her body was compelled to follow. She joined him by the piano, opening her music.

Under the influence of his voice, her singing was better than ever before. Of course, not perfect, far from perfect, but in the safety of his control, she was finally able to relax. She was not so incredibly scared now, and she took corrections without protest.

She was improving at a fast pace, so much so that Erik was even astonishing himself. At the end of her second lesson, her voice was virtually unrecognizable from what he started with. But he saw that she grew weary, so he stopped, allowing her to go and rest.

With the constant ballet training and Erik's exhausting lessons on top, Christine was able to truly tell how little she was taking care of herself. Weeks passed by in a haze of exhaustion, but she could not stop. She barely remembered herself anymore. Everyone was pulling her in every direction and she could not keep up. She woke up in pain, went to sleep in pain, and worst of all, her deteriorating condition was starting to affect her singing.

"Christine!" Erik shouted in frustration, making the poor girl jump with fright at his rage. "You are tense as steel! Drop your shoulders before I hold them down myself!"

His eyes immediately softened when he caught the look on her face. She looked like a deer who had just been shot. He took a deep breath, calming himself.

"Child, you were immeasurably better last week, and more alert. You look awful. What is the matter with you?"

She tried to respond, tried to assure him that she would be better, but all that came from her mouth was soft stammering. Her eyes filled with tears, but not because he had shouted at her. Erik could quite obviously tell that she was exhausted beyond belief, and he looked at her with a firm, yet gentle gaze.

"Have you been sleeping?" He asked her, now inexplicably worried for her. When her only response was breaking eye contact with him, a guilty look in her eyes, he set his jaw. "Have you been eating?" Again, silence. His voice grew firm, for he knew it was the only way for her to truly listen and obey. "Christine, I am not going to teach you if you are going to waste your gift by neglecting yourself. If I do not see an improvement in your health by next week, there will be consequences. Do you understand?"

She felt like she was being scolded, much like a child that has been naughty. But, the raw power of his voice was awesome, and she could only manage a small nod as a response, her head bowed.

"Good. Now go rest."

She nodded again timidly, thanking him in a soft tone before bidding him goodnight.

Christine returned to her dormitory that night, laying down slowly and gingerly due to the muscle aches in her whole body. She could not stop thinking about this man, who had taken her life by storm, and in only a few weeks somehow gave her meaning. She had not such an excitement for life in years that she felt when she sang with him. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, purely because she did not want to lose him.


	5. Chapter 5

It is miraculous how much better she felt when she actually started to take care of herself. Of course, her only motivation to sleep and eat at regular intervals was that now, if she lost the only thing in her life that gave her some joy, she would most surely die. Erik had her completely under his thumb: he has taken her young heart and manipulated it into submission, so much so that she could not imagine a life without him or his music. During ballet class, she danced to the music in her own head, giving her a new sense of light which could not be explained. As her condition changed for the better, she started coming to lessons with a vibrancy and energy in her step, and Erik smiled, knowing he did something good.

"Christine," he greeted her fondly. To her surprise, he had not taken out his music, simply stood, as if he has been waiting for her. "I thought that today, we could conduct our lesson in a different place. Would you like that?"

She nodded, obliging if it meant she got to sing today. "Yes, of course."

"Come with me."

His voice, that thing which seized the power in the room and rang with a majesty she could not explain, immediately took a hold of her senses with those mere words. She had no choice but to obey, and even though he did not sing to her, she followed him with a wordless obedience that made it quite easy for Erik to lead her down into his domain. They descended the stairs through the opera, and she followed him unquestioningly until they reached the entrance to the Paris catacombs underneath the opera.

He turned around once he realized he was no longer being followed, and he saw her stood frozen in front of the entrance. The passageway leading inside lead to pitch darkness, and she was quite afraid. She questioned where they were going with a nervous inflection, but she was quieted.

"Trust me."

And it was precisely then that she followed that voice to the end of the earth.

She came with him willingly, no manipulation necessary. Erik was actually quite surprised, for he was prepared to dose her with opium without her knowledge if the necessity arose. He was desperate for her, for as much as he consumed her life, she consumed his soul, his entire existence. He could not live without her either. The poor girl had no idea what she had done: she had taken the soul of a broken man and given him hope. Dangerous hope. As long as this hope remained, he would never let her go.

The girl's steps were almost as silent as his, with newfound dancer's grace, and a few times he had to make sure she was still behind him. He could see perfectly well, but she was surrounded in pitch black, which made it rather hard to navigate. He lead her along with his voice, which worked well for a time until they encountered stairs. He then realized that he had to touch her.

Erik offered her a gloved hand in the dark before realizing that stupidly that she could not see. He reached out gingerly, and she jumped in surprise as she felt a long, thin hand catch hold of her wrist. She was blindly lead down the stairs, a reassuring voice instructing her along the way.

"There are going to be some steps. I apologize, Christine, I will bring a lantern next time. I forget that other people cannot see in the dark. There will be light soon."

She nodded, continuing to follow his gentle pull, until she began to see light ahead.

The passageway opened into a spacious cavern, made from natural stone. Christine concluded that they were now deep under the opera, in the cellars, but as she began to familiarize herself with the light and her surroundings, she came across a sight that made her heart stop.

It was a vast lake, the still water shining black on its surface as the light from fluorescent electric bulbs reflected and danced. She stood still in pure, childish wonder, staring at the lake as Erik lit a lantern and stepped into a sleek, black boat.

She did not notice the boat until she saw Erik offer her his hand, and she stepped in silently, sitting on a few pillows that adorned the boat's floor. Her wonderful gaze shifted to her guide as he started to row across the lake, his stokes rhythmic and powerful. She didn't know where they were going, and as they continued, she found that she did not care. She really was going to the end of the earth.

She began to greatly relax now, the sound of the gliding water and the sparkling of the black lake lulling her into a great sense of complacency. She reached her hand over the edge of the boat, skimming her fingers across the frigid water absentmindedly.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity to Christine, they reached the other side of the lake. She was helped out of the boat, and before her, there stood the other wall of the cavern. Imbedded into the stone, there was a door.

Erik finally revealed to her where they were, thinking that she deserved to know as he opened the door. "This is my home, Christine. Come in."

She stepped into her teacher's very strange home, and Erik followed her inside. She heard the door close behind them, and the sound made an involuntary shudder surge through her body. She felt like an outsider, an intruder somehow, even when Erik invited her to sit.

The living room was very lavishly decorated, complete with a fireplace, lush furniture, and a tapestry rug adorning the floor. She sat, and when Erik offered to make tea, she nodded gratefully.

He left her alone in his living room, leaving her eyes to wander around her very surreal surroundings. Erik had just disappeared into an adjacent room, which she assumed to be the kitchen, and on the other side of the living room, there was a hallway which led to seemingly more rooms. Just as she began to grow nervous of her presence here, Erik returned with tea, as if he had felt her fear.

He sat in the armchair next to the sofa where she sat, setting the tea tray down on the coffee table. Once her cup was poured, she thanked him quietly, taking it from the tray. Her movements were stiff, and Erik could tell easily that she felt quite odd and out of place, probably wondering why she was here.


	6. Chapter 6

"You have given me great joy over the past weeks," he stated, his tone earnest. "Actually, now that we have met, I cannot imagine my life without teaching you. Everything before now seems so mundane. The gods smiled when they imagined you, Christine Daae."

Her cheeks reddened until they were a most adorable shade of rose, for this is the first time he had praised her.

"I…" her voice shook with hints of emotion as she tried to find words, "I thought I was disappointing you."

"You were, for a time," he admitted. "But you have greatly improved once you started putting more effort into your health. I was worried about you, I admit."

Silence flooded the room for a few moments after his confession, since Christine did not know how he would like her to respond. The relationship between the mentor and his pupil, especially in this case, was a very odd one, something both parties have never quite experienced before. In an effort to deal with his uncomfortable feelings, Erik changed the subject.

"Would you sing for me, Christine?"

She nodded, setting down her teacup as he rose to lead her to the piano in the corner of the living room. Beside the piano were stacks and stacks of sheet music, some new, and some looking worn and weathered. No matter their condition, they were often written over with quick, scrawl-like handwriting. He looked through one of the older stacks, finding what he was looking for. It was the aria from Faust, and he pushed it into her hands with confidence.

She looked over the music, her heart rate climbing as she assessed its level of difficulty.

"I… I am not ready."

He furrowed his brow, about to scold her, but he knew that she needed a bit of encouragement if she was to even attempt it. "Nonsense, my dear. Sing."

Her voice was obviously quite nervous, but he forgave it as she continued to sing. Surprising even herself at her marked improvement, she gained a bit of confidence, making him smile. There was still much to fix, and much work to be done, but now she did not seem as hopeless as when he first started.

Despite his obvious pleasure, he did not give her any easier of a time. He let her finish, but his corrections were just as relentless and just as harsh as when they first started. Being in his own home gave him that much more power over her, and he used this fact to his advantage in his constant demand for perfection.

As her technique improved and her confidence in herself grew, Erik was delighted to find that her voice was starting to develop feeling. She was performing, not just going through the motions of a technically correct aria. His heart swelled with pride; his songbird was flourishing under his watchful care, which would continue as long as he was able.

As always, their lesson ended as soon as he noticed deterioration in her pitch, meaning that she was growing fatigued. He needed to let her rest, he realized, even though it was no easy feat. A gesture was all that was needed to suggest that she should sit, and together, they lounged in front of the fire to finish their tea.

The conversation between them started quite awkwardly, as it normally does when two people do not know each other so well. He found himself asking her about her life, her passions, and he got answers.

"Father and I travelled a lot, when I was a child. He was a very talented violinist, and he performed all over Sweden. We never stayed anywhere for more than a few weeks at a time. Some might say that this was not the environment to raise a child in, but I was the happiest I have ever been."

He listened intently, watching her face light up at the memories she was bringing back. He hesitated for a moment before asking his next question.

"What happened to him?"

"Consumption," she replied sadly. "It took him quickly, and within the span of a few months, I was an orphan. I was twelve."

She paused for a moment, looking to him to see if she should continue. He looked reassuring, and so he did.

"I was housed with a family for a few years so that I could finish my primary education. I then went to the conservatory, where I studied voice. It was what my father would have wanted, but I did very poorly. I barely passed, but I was not deemed hirable. I was sent to the opera, where they hoped they could teach me to dance."

"I have never actually seen you dance," Erik commented nonchalantly, "Although, I have heard that you are improving greatly."

"I am not very good," Christine admitted, looking down to avoid his gaze.

"Christine." His voice grew firm as he said her name, causing her to immediately look up. She thought she was going to be scolded, and instinctively, she shrunk into herself. He sighed. "You have no confidence in yourself, my dear. If you do not believe in yourself, then there is no reason I should believe in you."

Her eyes darted towards the floor, and she fingered the lace of her dress nervously, unsure of what to say. "I suppose… I suppose no one has ever believed in me, since father died."

"I have every faith that you can achieve the heights of which I know you are capable." Normally, he wouldn't go to such lengths to reassure anyone. He supposed that this was due to the fact that one has ever mattered to him as much as Christine. Her presence made his heart grow fond in a way that no one has ever done, and this entitled her to his best attempt at lenience.

Their conversation resumed after this touching moment of connection, and soon, they were conversing like old friends. Slowly, irrevocably, their relationship began to morph from teacher and student to companion and companion. Unbelievably, Christine was even beginning to show affection towards him, and unbeknownst to her, affection was not something that she could take back. She has now earned a place in Erik's mind as someone who might, just might, love him someday.

It was only when Erik checked the time that he realized how late it was. He thought of taking her back to the surface, where she could return to her own room; but she needed her rest, and it was so late, he convinced himself.


	7. Chapter 7

"You need your rest, Christine," he reminded her, unfurling himself from the armchair in which he had made himself comfortable. "If it is agreeable with you, you may stay here tonight, so that you do not have to tire yourself with the journey back."

She hesitated for a moment, thinking that she may want to return after all, but it was already very late. She was tired already, and she was not looking forward to the catacombs again. She nodded and thanked him softly, also standing from the sofa and following him into the hallway.

He lead her to a lavish bedroom, complete with a bed, writing desk, wardrobe, and attached bathroom. He left her for a moment, realizing that she did not have anything to wear to bed, returning with a robe of elegant black silk. He never used it, and it would have to do. She thanked him and he turned to leave, but she stopped him before he had a chance to close the door.

"Erik?" Her slightly accented tongue made his name sound like a sigh of music.

He turned, his eyes inquisitive. There was so much he could express with just his eyes.

"I… I was wondering… You seem to know everything about me, and yet I know nothing about you. I do not even know what you look like."

The question he had been waiting for, and the one he had been dreading. No matter how many times he had prepared for her asking in his mind, he never knew what to say. This was not something that was easily explained. At least he could find himself more time.

"Change, Christine," he instructed, approaching the door again. "Once you are done, I will tell you."

He closed her door, his entire body tense as he came to sit in his armchair in front of the fire. How would he tell her? He decided he must tell the truth, for the first time in his life; there was no use in lying to her. If he was to gain her trust, have an inkling of being a normal man, he must not remain elusive. She must not be afraid of him.

He knocked before he entered her room again, and she turned to face him, his black robe draped over her petite frame in the most beautiful, adorable way. He gestured for her to sit, and she did so on the bed, and he sat in the chair at the desk.

"Christine," he began, his voice quivering as he spoke. She noticed this fundamental change in him, his voice which once held unimaginable beauty and power was reduced to fear. "My face… Is nothing you would want to see. It is my true downfall, my ugliness."

She gazed into his eyes sympathetically, but he knew that she was not aware of the true extent of his deformity. He paused, noticing her growing curiosity she displayed. The poor girl was going to ask to see.

She bit her lip, trying to refrain, but her inquisition was going to get the better of her. "May… May I see?"

This is it, Erik thought, defeated. This is the moment where I lose her. The moment where I have to deconstruct this beautiful lie I have created.

He was disappointed and broken, but he realized that letting go of her now would be easier than later. The pain, no matter how great, would be significantly less. He knew by now not to become attached, and yet he allowed himself to stupidly have hope. If she saw, then she would hate him, and then he would have no choice in the matter. Erik stood, sitting on the bed beside her. His fought to keep his composure, every fiber of his body screaming in protest. But, he sat still, and it became clear that he wanted Christine to remove the mask herself.

She reached a hand up to his face, and he physically shuddered as he felt her fingers graze his skin. He closed his eyes, unable to look at her. He knew what she was about to see. It took all of his strength to not run as he felt his face exposed to fresh air.

The silence was deafening. Each second was an eternity, and they grew slower, time slowing down. He did not feel her move, meaning she was still there, as the moments passed. Eventually, the suspense was killing him, and he did not know how much more his heart could take if he did not open his eyes.

His forced his eyes open, as if they were made of lead. He stayed completely still, almost believing that if he didn't move, she could not see him. But, of course, this was untrue. The first thing that he saw was her eyes. They were wide as saucers, and she almost didn't believe what was before her. But she did not run away, and she did not die, much to Erik's surprise! It took her quite a long time to recover from her state of dumb shock, and soon her expression shifted. She bit her lip, as she always did when she was in deep thought. Her mind struggled to process what she was even looking at, but she knew that she was not afraid. She could not explain how she felt yet, but she did have one question. She asked it, because she knew that she should speak eventually. Her voice was a whisper.

"Does… Does it hurt you?"

Of all the questions she could ask, of all the things she could say, Erik was expecting this one the least. In fact, he was incredibly shocked that she was still conscious, as women had a tendency to faint. He supposed that he should answer now.

"No, Christine. It does not hurt."

She was still holding his mask in her hands, and she was nonplussed as to what to do with it. The silence in the room was laced with anticipation, as they both bored into each others' souls. Each one was waiting for the other to move first.

Erik could not wait any longer. He regained his slow majesty of movement, as if he was unfurling from himself. He recovered his power, and he dared take the mask from Christine's hands, swiftly covering himself once more.

More silence. Of everything, the silence was what tortured him. The very air in the room felt so tense, it was like swimming through lead. He turned his back to her, a hand on the door frame steadying his posture as he prepared for a final, devastating blow.

"I assume you would like me to take you back." His words were cold, as if he was already resigning himself to her hatred. Of everything, his hope would be the thing to kill him, and he decided to take it out of the equation.

Christine averted her gaze for a few moments, unsure of what to do. What she was sure of, for some perplexing reason, was that Erik would not hurt her. But she could do much to hurt him. She realized that if she left now, she would lose him forever. His face perplexed and tortured her, but she did not want to lose him.

"I… I would like to stay, if you will allow me."


	8. Chapter 8

His surprise could not be contained. He turned quickly to look at her, his eyes containing shock, and a dangerous glimmer of hope. He attempted to crush his own spirits once again, trying to convince himself that he simply heard wrong. His tone, once again, was like ice.

"What did you say?"

His voice felt like daggers impaling her heart. With each passing moment, she felt him slipping away from her: his voice, his genius, his guidance. He hated her, she thought, but she repeated her statement, holding onto a scrap of hope that she did not ruin this, whatever this was, forever.

"If I am still welcome, I would like to stay."

He was now the one on the verge of fainting. His hand tightened on the door frame as he supported himself weakly, but he was determined to not display his shock. He composed himself, silently thanking whatever higher being decided to smile upon him only this once in his life.

"Of course you may stay."

Christine was still wary, but she could not help herself. Before she was left alone, she had one more question.

"May… I ask one more question?"

"I suppose."

"... What happened?"

Another question he had anticipated, but did not expect to appear. He sighed, his eyes growing sad.

"An accident, I suppose. I have known no other face."

She nodded, for she did not need to reply. She now knew all she needed to know. He excused himself politely before closing her door, leaving her alone. He doubted that she would sleep that night, but at least she could rest from him.

Christine stayed in the Louis-Philippe room for a time, turning down her lamp and trying to sleep. She stared at the ceiling, feeling rather exhausted, but sleep evaded her. She did not know how Erik would react to her roaming about the house, but she concluded that perhaps he would not mind her sitting in the living room by the fire. She could never stay still for very long.

He was sitting at the piano in the living room when she opened her door, and he looked up upon hearing her entry. She averted her gaze, her conscious guilty for bothering him. As hideous as his face was, it seemed to change nothing. He sighed, setting down his quill.

"You cannot sleep."

She nodded, feeling quite like an immature child. "Not at all."

He nodded understandingly, gesturing for her to sit as he disappeared down the hall. The fire was quite warming, calming her as he waited for his return. He did so promptly, pushing a small glass into her hands.

"Drink, it will help you sleep."

She was about to question him, but she decided that she has expended her questions for the night. The liquid in the glass burned as it went down, and it was so bitter that she nearly gagged. Erik felt quite bad as her face winced in disgust, but he knew it was necessary.

"What was that?" She groaned, returning the glass to him. On second thought, she was scared to know.

"Laudanum," he stated nonchalantly. "You will feel it take effect in a few minutes. If you would like to stay here, I can play for you."

She nodded gratefully, but he was stopped by her voice again during his approach to the piano.

"Actually… Would you sing for me?"

The stopped midstep. As beautiful as his voice was, no one has ever asked. In fact, he was quite used to utilizing it as a weapon, not necessarily something of beauty. The longer the two stood in silence, the more anxiety Christine felt, for she thought he would reject her. Surprisingly, he did not.

"Of course. Although, I suggest that you go lay down, in that case."

She did not question this, and she felt his presence behind her as she returned to the Louis-Phillipe room. She laid down in bed, already starting to feel the effects of the laudanum as her head sunk into the pillow.

She audibly sighed as he began to sing, and in response a small smile tugged on his lips. His voice wrapped her in a shroud of calm, stripping of her of her senses until she only existed the realm of his song. She easily fell asleep as she surrendered control, assisted partly by the laudanum, but his work did not stop there. He made her see beautiful things in her dreams, and ensured that she would remain asleep for a good while, knowing that she needed it. He left her to rest, quite satisfied with his work, but lost in his own thought.

He had shown her his face, and she did not hate him. This itself was a miracle, but then, as if the gods had finally decided to mercy him, she decided to stay. He concluded this was partly due to her exhaustion, but still, she was not afraid enough to flee him. He himself was quite dumbfounded, wondering what miraculous creature he had stumbled upon when he met her. As he was consumed in his thoughts, and like the cracking of a dam, hope flooded his deserted heart. He fought with himself, torn apart from the inside with conflict, but he could not escape the tide of his emotion. He was burning with feeling, and in the midst of his pain, he came to a distinct conclusion: he would not let her go, ever.


	9. Chapter 9

He was still at the piano when she awoke, quietly composing in order to quell his emotion and pass the time. She was still mostly asleep, but she had the strange feeling that she had slept for far too long. She forced herself from the warm comfort of her bed, greeting Erik in the living room.

"What time is it?"

He looked up to her, his eyes looking quite sympathetic as he noticed how exhausted she still was.

"Go back to sleep, Christine. I have sent word to the managers that you will not be attending class today."

She opened her mouth to respond, to question him, but almost immediately closed him, realizing how grateful she was that she could go back to sleep. Silently, she returned to the Louis-Philippe room, burying herself in the plush bedcovers.

She slept for at least another few hours before she was finally ready to get up, but of course Erik did not mind waiting. In fact, he often stood from his work to check on her, indulging for a few minutes in watching her sleep before returning to his piano, his conscious guilty. The last time he checked on her, she was beginning to wake up, and so he leaned against the doorway, watching her regain consciousness. She yawned rather adorably, stretching much like a cat before sitting up in bed. She reminded him much of his Ayesha, who he had not seen for a day or two now, as she was hunting in the catacombs.

"Good morning, Christine," he greeted her fondly. "Come, you must get up now, I would like to give you your lesson before it is too late in the day."

She took a deep breath, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven," he replied. "You slept for a long while. Now, take your time and dress, and I will be waiting for you."

Closed the door behind him, leaving her alone again to get ready. Christine dressed herself, and on the vanity she found a comb to fix her hair. Erik was searching for sheet music when she emerged from the Louis-Philippe room, and she waited quietly for him to address her.

"Today, you will learn Faust," he instructed, pulling a manuscript from a large stack.

She took the manuscript from him, but of course, she had questions. "That is the opera that we are preparing to show."

"Precisely, my dear," Erik replied excitedly. "You will be learning Marguerite's part."

"That is Carlotta's role…" Christine thought aloud, wondering exactly what he was planning.

"Again, precisely." He sat at the piano, inviting her to come forward to stand next to him. "Carlotta will make a laughing stock of this role, and of herself. And when she fails miserably, you will be there to take her place."

"But Carlotta has an understudy," she argued, sounding quite defensive. She was afraid now, afraid that she would disappoint him, of not being ready.

"Silence." His voice grew firm, and the more she pushed, the shorter his temper became. "Everything will be fine so long as you do as I say. Sing for me now."

She nodded, glancing over the sheet music of her first aria before beginning. He stood as she sang, watching her with strict intensity as she sang for him. Her behavior the previous night gave him a sense of newfound courage, and for the first time, she was praised.

"You are doing very well," he reassured her, watching her eyes light up before he began his corrections. "We still have much work to do on your control, pitch, and shape, though. Again."

Their lesson progressed in their usual fashion, but Christine also gained confidence due to his small amounts of praise. Noticing her improvement, he decided to test a small experiment. Before he corrected her, he gave her small pieces of praise, things she did well, or reassurance. No more than a few words, but the difference was astounding. He noticed how much more relaxed she seemed, her increase in vocal flexibility, and faster application of corrections. Fundamentally, she needed someone to believe in her, and Erik was willing to give her that comfort.

At the end of their lesson, Christine was singing Marguerite superbly. Erik could hardly believe his ears, but she really had made leaps and bounds. He concluded that, if he continued to train her in this way, soon she would be ready to bring Paris to its feet.

He simply closed his music, watching her do the same once she realized she was done. To him, she was absolute radiance, perfection in its mortal form. He could not stop looking at her. In order to break the silence that surrounded them, he decided to return to a topic they discussed last night, one he continued to be curious about.

"May I ask you of something, Christine?"

She looked up from her music, giving a small nod. "Anything."

"I would like to see you dance."

Of course, this was something that she could do for him. As with anything she did, she was quite nervous of embarrassing herself, still quite convinced she was not good at anything. But she obliged him, knowing that it was quite rare for him to ask.

"My ballet things are in my dressing room. I would get them, but I am supposed to be in class… Someone might see me."

"No one will see. Come with me."

He went to light a lantern, and as Christine watched him, she realized that they were going back to the surface. He gestured for her to follow him, and together, they left the house on the lake.

For Christine, the trip was not more enjoyable now that she could see, but it surely was less stressful. She was able to ascend stairs without losing her balance, keep herself from walking into walls, and have a better idea of how far they had come. After what seemed like an eternity of stone passageways, they came to an end, and Christine saw the oddest thing.

It looked like a window, but it was very large and the image behind it was slightly darkened. It was only when she came closer that she realized what she was looking at. It was her dressing room!


	10. Chapter 10

Erik pushed a small spring in the wall, which caused the window to click open slightly. He moved past her, pulling the window back into the passageway to reveal her dressing room to her. Dumbfounded, she stepped inside, looking back to find that it was her mirror.

She was curious, but slightly perturbed now, thinking of who else had access to this passageway, and what they might use it for.

"... Do you watch me?"

"Never!" Erik proclaimed, his voice sounding quite sincere. "I am a gentleman. I have never used this passageway, but now it might be quite useful to us."

She nodded, for she was compelled to believe him, but she still had questions. "Does anyone else know about this passageway?"

"No. It is for my own personal use."

She took a moment to think, and it dawned on her that everything she learned about him converged to one terrifying fact.

"You are the opera ghost."

Behind the mask, Erik's face drained of color, and he stood very still as he tensed. He could tell that she was formulating ideas of him in her head, but he did not realize how much she really knew. Of everyone in the entire company, it was the little Swedish ballerina to figure it out. He supposed that he should be quite proud of her intelligence. Despite this, her knowledge was a threat to his security, his future, if he even had one. Would he have to kill her now? Did he allow her to know? Did he manipulate her into forgetting, into submission? He did not know, and suddenly, his conscious was wrought with conflict. But for now, he decided he had no choice but to allow her to know.

"Indeed, I am."

Silence dominated the pair for another moment, before Christine had the mind to reply.

"So it is you… The notes, the threats… The deaths."

Erik set his jaw, thinking of lying, but he could not bring himself to. He nodded slowly, and it was then that Christine realized that she had befriended the most dangerous man in the world.

Then, Erik did something quite unsettling. He did not attempt to explain himself, defend his actions, or reassure her in any way. He simply stated that he would be waiting for her on the top floor, in their usual room, before he closed the mirror. He was gone.

Of course, Christine immediately tried to open the mirror again, but she found that it was suddenly, inexplicably locked. It was just a mirror once more. What would happen to her if she refused to see him again? Did she want to see him again? His face was a true horror, but the real horror to her now was the way he systematically terrified and extorted hundreds of people, using them as pawns in his game with no sense of remorse or regret. She was overcome with inexplicable grief, grief for let life as she knew it, grief of the death of the man she thought she knew. Throughout the scattered ramblings in the storm that was now her mind, she knew that she must meet him. Not because she necessarily wanted to now, but because she did not know what would happen if she didn't.

She entered the room on the top floor, wearing a robe over her dance uniform with her hair in a bun. She had her pointe shoes in her hand, and she greeted him quietly before sitting on the wood floor to put them on. If he wanted to see her dance, she would show him, determined to keep the civility for the sake of her own safety. She knew that as long as she did as he asked, he would never hurt her. Because of their bond, she was granted immunity from the wrath of the opera ghost.

It was as if Erik had completely disregarded their previous conversation. He greeted her warmly, watching her begin to stretch quickly before standing. To him, she was beauty itself, and he watched her move with a fluidity that he had never once seen from her. She stood for a moment, going on and off pointe as she thought. It was very strange: she now knew that her mentor was a murderer and extortionist, and yet she could not shake the feeling of desperately wanting to impress him. She was not used to being afraid of him.

Christine attempted a few pirouettes, looking at herself in the mirror that lined an entire wall of the room. She surprised even herself when she did not lose her balance and fall, which is what usually happened before she began to dedicate herself to dance. She was no longer the awkward, clumsy girl who acted as the laughing stock of her company: she was improving, quickly, and was mediocre no more.

Erik simply watched her in awe. He had watched ballet before, not quite paying attention to the minute details of the craft, and he never knew that someone could move like she was. Of course, she was not the best dancer, but in her he had an opportunity to do something which was not normally allowed of him. He was allowed to watch close.

She went through a few moves that she remembered from the ballet in Faust, quite often pausing in order to remember what came next. As he watched, he wondered about the amount of energy it took to execute the steps of the dance in a technically satisfactory way. No wonder she was exhausted most of the time, he thought to himself. The mechanics of the motions fascinated him, and he wondered why she did what she did.

He started to ask questions, such as why her feet were placed where they were and why her arms moved the way they did. She answered all of his questions, although some of her answers were simply that she did not know. He found that dancing was like an extension of music, where there was a right and a wrong way, and some things, for some reason, did not look or sound as beautiful as others.

Eventually, she stopped dancing, coming to rest on the floor and asking Erik what time it was. She had forgotten her own watch, and she knew that she had a class at four, which she might be able to make it to. When he informed her that it was a quarter to four, she plucked up the courage to ask if she could go.

He thought for a moment, quite sad that he could not watch her dance anymore. But he agreed and allowed her to go, under one condition: that she was to return with him to the house on the lake that night. Reluctantly, she accepted this condition, bidding him goodbye before going to class.


	11. Chapter 11

Of course, Christine was already warmed up before the class began to dance, which told Madame Giry something wonderful: she had been practicing. Normally, she had an adjustment period during the first few minutes of class, where she stretched, regained her sense of balance, and essentially reminded herself why she was there, but today that was not an issue. Even more shocking, Christine managed to remember the steps to the ballet, because she had been dancing it only a few minutes before. Now, the other pupils finally began to notice Christine's lack of mediocrity, marveling at the fact that she had not fallen once yet. Madame Giry simply watched her, and once the combination had been finished, commended her pupil on her improvement. Being praised brought pride to Christine's heart, but as much as she tried to find significance in it, she felt more delight when Erik commended her on her singing. As much as it tortured her, she was not put on this earth to dance. She was born so that she could sing, and the only reason she could sing as well as she did was because of him. She owed her success to a mad man, who might very well make her to his bidding.

Christine nearly jumped out of her own skin when she entered her bedroom, finding Erik sitting in her chair, supposedly waiting for her. She regained her composure quickly, closing her door and politely asking why he was there.

"I have been waiting for you, so that you may come with me," was his simple reply.

She averted her gaze, watching him stand out of the corner of her eye. His height alone intimidated her, and now, there were many other factors to her teacher that made her very afraid indeed. "Actually, I… I thought I would stay here tonight."

Erik immediately furrowed his brow, his temper growing thin. "You gave your word, Christine. Are you someone who goes back on their word?"

She stood still for a moment, trying to contain her emotion, but it was useless. She bit her lip, turning her back on him before he could see her cry.

"You lied to me!" She choked back her sobs, unable to control herself any longer. "I trusted you! I trusted you with my voice, my life… And you lied! I think about the people you have terrified, the people you have killed! I think about the fact that you have killed."

His entire body tensed, like a predator priming to kill. He fought to control his rage, but he did not know how much longer he would last. "I had no choice, Christine. And, as you may know, I have not taken a life in a very long time. I do so only in self defense, and only when it is truly necessary. Do you think me a mindless murderer who kills for pleasure?"

"I don't know what to think!" She exclaimed, turning to face him. Heartbreak lined every feature of her face. "I don't know what is right anymore. I know that you have been very kind to me, but what you have done, Erik…"

"And I will continue to be kind to you," he replied stonily. "But I am afraid that you know too much. You are putting me in a very dangerous position indeed, my dear. I will make you a proposition. As long as you continue to do as I say, I will do you no harm. You may even come to enjoy our time together. In exchange, I vow to put an end to the death I create. Forever. But disobey me, Christine… and there will be consequences. That is my promise. Do you accept?"

Christine took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment in order to center herself. This was too much, all too much. Was Erik actually trying to change? Was he trying to become a better person? In a way, him admitting to her the fact that he has killed was a confession, of sorts. Perhaps the latter was true, then. Or, on the contrary, was this just another tactic to manipulate her into submission? She did not know, and she would continue to be left in the dark until it is revealed in the future. But she knew that she had a responsibility: to the people she knew, to herself, and to the man she used to know. The kind, sweet man whose voice floated amongst the stars, whose song lifted her to heights she did not even know she was capable of. Perhaps, that man needed her.

"You promise?" She questioned, wariness laced in her every word. "No more deaths, not even for defense?"

"Yes Christine." He felt his temper cool as he realized she was going to submit. "I give my word."

She lifted her head to look at him, and finally, she nodded. "May I change before we go?"

He permitted this, disappearing behind the mirror to give her privacy. For some inexplicable reason, Christine knew that he was not watching her. She changed quickly, gathering a few things that she would like to bring with her, including her book, her hairbrush, and diary. Erik soon came back to retrieve her, holding a lit lantern while he watched her enter the passageway with him.

"You like to read, Christine?" He asked softly, as an attempt to de-escalate the tension between the two.

"Very much so," she replied. "Father used to read to me when I was a child, until I was old enough to read on my own. I can't set a book down until I'm finished with it."

"I have quite an extensive library," he explained, leading her down a flight of stairs. "You are welcome to take books whenever you wish."

She thanked him, and the two fell into silence for a few minutes as there was nothing to talk about. She wondered why she was there, but she did not have the courage to ask until now.

"Am I here for any particular reason?"

"Not necessarily. Sometimes it is nice to have company, but I also want to make sure you are getting enough rest. You look tired, Christine."

She appreciated knowing that she was cared about, however the feeling still did not sit right with her. She decided not to argue, simply continuing to follow him through the labyrinth of the catacombs and across the lake.

Once they returned to the house on the lake, Erik took the liberty of showing her the library. The room was quite expansive, with several shelves laden with books of all different styles, genres, and languages. In the center, surrounded by bookshelves, were a couple of very comfortable armchairs in which to sit and read. Upon seeing the reaction on Christine's face, it was clear to Erik where she would be spending a lot of her time.


	12. Chapter 12

He left her to read and peruse the books, taking this time to work on a few errands that had piled up. He came back to check on her eventually, and he smiled when he saw that she had acquired a small pile of books in the armchair across from where she sat. What surprised him more was that they were in a variety of languages.

"Christine?" He called to her, approaching her curiously. "How many languages do you know?"

This made her look up from her book, furrowing her brow. She had never taken the time to count. "Swedish is my first language, and then French, Italian, English… a little bit of German, as well."

This was something that he did not know about her. She continued to surprise him every day, and softly he asked why she knew so many.

"During my schooling, I never really made any friends," she explained, closing her book. "So I read. Many of the books I wanted to read were in different languages, and so I learned them. I didn't really have anything else to take up my time."

"No wonder I have never had to correct you on your pronunciation," he thought out loud, immediately feeling quite stupid. "You are very intelligent, Christine."

She thanked him, watching him look through the stack of books she has decided to read. Besides from being in different languages, they were also from a variety of genres: there was a fiction novel in English, a language book, a book on music theory in Italian, and an astronomy book in German.

"That text might prove a bit tricky," she commented, watching him look it over. "I am quite out of practice."

"I don't know German," Erik admitted, quite confused. "I don't even know why I have this, but enjoy it. I will be in the living room, if you need something."

He left her alone to her reading, thankful that he was able to provide her with some comfort while she was with him. He did not have the mind to check on her for several hours, but when he did, he found that she was asleep, a book still open on her lap. After all, it was quite late in the evening.

Erik took a minute to watch her sleep, for he could not help himself. She was gorgeous, as well as intelligent, and he could not keep his eyes from her. After a while, he mustered the courage to take the book from her, marking her page and returning it to the stack. Gently, he lifted her from her chair, and upon being moved she opened her eyes. She shifted a little once she realized she was being held, which was not something she particularly enjoyed. She tried to speak, but she was shushed as Erik carried her to the Louis-Philippe room.

She allowed herself to be set down in bed, as she was already starting to fall asleep again. She felt a blanket being laid across her, and then she heard the door shut behind Erik before she drifted off. She did not know why she fell asleep so easily, knowing now that she was in the company of the opera ghost, but something told her that Erik would never hurt her. She had proved herself to be trustworthy, and now she was awarded with safety and civility.

Christine began to gain the attention of the other dancers in the ballet corp, now that she was quite a decent dancer. It seemed now that she was not making a fool of herself, they didn't hate her quite so much. Her life was now filled with class, then returning to the house on the lake in the evening for lessons and reading and sleeping. Before she knew it, she hadn't slept in her own bed in nearly a fortnight. She did not mind too much, though, for Erik remained perfectly civil and kind to her. He maintained his position as a strict, unforgiving teacher, but they also had quite wonderful chats in the evenings when her nose was not stuck in a book. He had travelled all over the world, and he had the most amazing stories.

It was so very hard to read what he was thinking that it drove Christine mad. Was he repenting for his past sins, trying to become a better man? Was this a brilliant facade, just for her? She did not know, and for the time being, she did not want to find out. The peace in the house was not to be disturbed, and for once, Christine decided to keep her burning curiosity to herself. She already knew too much.

During their lessons, Christine began to notice that Erik was correcting her slightly less every time. It has now been nearly three months since they met, and her voice was unrecognizable from where she had started. To Erik, she was quickly approaching perfection. He gave her regular praise and correction as it was needed, but he began to notice something quite spectacular: she was beginning to correct herself. She now had the ear and the awareness to realize when something was not technically correct, when something was wrong. Quite often, she stopped herself, starting again and correcting her own mistakes. This was when she knew she was ready for the stage.

It was opening night. Erik had let her stay at the surface that day, allowing her to assume that she would be dancing. An hour to curtain-up, and she heard a knock at her door. She got up from her stretching and answered, her face draining of color when she saw who it was. It was the managers! She allowed them in, expecting them to tell her that she would not be dancing tonight, that she would be fired. Of course, what else were the managers doing with a ballet girl? Instead, their faces displayed pure, unadulterated panic.

"We heard that you know Marguerite, in Faust," Firmin stated, his voice soft.

Her heart hammered in her chest as it dawned on her what they would be asking her for. She nodded slowly, allowing them to continue speaking.

"La Carlotta and her understudy are both ill," Moncharmin explained gravely, unable to believe this was happening to them. "Food poisoning. If you know it, you will be singing the role of Marguerite tonight."


	13. Chapter 13

Immediately Christine knew the disparity of the situation if the managers were asking a ballerina to sing soprano. Still, that fact alone did not quell the shock or the fear that she felt, wondering how this even happened. It took a bit of convincing, but she reluctantly agreed, and they both sighed in relief. They did not have to cancel after all. Of course, there might be some disgruntled patrons and some refunds, but alas, they would not have to cancel. They thanked her curtly, telling her that a costumer would be in shortly to dress her. Just as quickly as they had come, they left her alone, leaving her to her growing panic to the point where she felt nauseous. Her vision blurred, her breathing quickened as she realized what was about to happen to her. Spiraling into a state of crisis, she heard the mirror softly click open, allowing Erik to rush to her side. He wrapped his hands around her shoulders as she leant on her vanity, hoping to calm her nerves before she had to perform. This is what he had always wanted for her, this is what he had planned for that night. Now it was up to her to win the hearts of Paris.

"Breathe, Christine." His voice was firm, yet reassuring, and he watched her with sympathy as she tried to control herself.

It took a few minutes before she could even speak, and she choked on her words as she struggled to breathe. "I can't do this."

"Yes you can." He maintained a level of reassurance that strove to calm her, but he forced an air of command and control into his voice in order to relieve her of her own mind. He felt her breathing start to slow. "Better. When you are ready, sing a few scales for me."

She did so, and as she felt her voice come back to her, she was finally able to compose herself. She sounded beautiful, just as she did earlier that day in their lessons. She was ready, and as a knock sounded at her door, Erik disappeared behind the mirror once more after one final message: "I will be watching."

As soon as she opened her door, her small dressing room was flooded with costumers, makeup artists, and the like. One woman began to take her hair out of her strict ballerina bun, instead letting her white-blonde curls fall wildly down her back, controlled only by a few pins. Someone else sat her in a chair and began applying makeup, but it was found that her lily face did not need much, save for around the eyes and lips. Finally, she stepped into her costume, five minutes to curtain-up. She forced herself to breathe, knowing that if she panicked, she would forget everything she has learned. Erik was watching, her company was watching, and Paris was watching.

Firmin and Moncharmin were backstage until curtain-up, and before the opera could begin, they made their announcement that La Carlotta would not be appearing tonight. The audience was of course upset, but not as upset as they would be if the show were to be cancelled. Opening night was watched by some of the operas most generous benefactors, and because of this, all eyes would be on Christine.

She was silent backstage, so much so that the company wondered if she could make sound at all. Her ballet corps were still battling with the fact that Christine Daae could apparently sing; the awkward little Swedish girl who didn't know her right from her left? Impossible. The managers watched from the front row of the audience, for they wanted to be there when the performance fell apart. Except, it never did. Despite the panic and the pressure, Christine stepped onto the stage, and she barely knew herself when she began to sing.

All eyes widened in shock as the sound of an angelic soprano voice flooded the auditorium. Thousands of people at once thought they were hallucinating the ethereal melody steaming from the stage, but of course they were not. An audible sigh could be heard from every mouth in the audience, and they leaned forward slightly, wanting to know exactly who was singing that night.

Moncharmin and Firmin closed their eyes when Christine entered the stage, expecting her to break down, to flee the stage, leaving them to pick up the pieces of their mess. At first, they did not believe the voice was hers. Perhaps it was an angel, sent from the heavens above, to save them from the inevitable disaster that was bound to result from this night. In fact, it was an angel, but it took the form of a petite ballet dancer with a voice that could bring God himself to tears.

Christine astonished even herself that night. Her voice reached heights that she did not expect: she was perfect, she did not miss a single note. Her extraordinary high pianissimo and gorgeous pitch astounded the audience, leaving them in a state of pure wonder that no one could resist. The opera felt like an eternity, as everyone always felt, but this time no one seemed to mind: there was not a dry eye in the audience that night.

Curtain call filled the auditorium with a full standing ovation. Funnily enough, poor Christine had to be pulled from the wings to give her final bow, as she would not do it on her own. She was met with endless applause, her eyes filling with tears as she realized she had done exactly as Erik expected: she had brought all of Paris to tears.

When she could finally exit the stage, her performance did not stop there: the entire cast wanted to know how she, a girl who no one knew, came to possess the most astounding voice they had ever heard. Their questions were met with answers from a voice they barely recognized, for her speaking was nothing like the resonant, perfectly pitched angel they had witnessed on stage. She was soft, and rather timid, often barely heard over the bustle of the backstage amidst her triumph. When she was finally allowed to return to her dressing room, she saw that it was filled with flowers. Bouquet upon bouquet of roses flooded every surface, their notes reading different names from the audience that night. In fact, she received quite a few roses from the opera's highest donors, which made her swell with pride.

It seemed like an eternity before she was left alone, and as she heard her lock click, the mirror simultaneously allowed Erik access to her. The first thing he did was wrap his arms around her tightly, words unable to express how proud he was. He knew that she was capable, he knew it all along: she just needed someone who believed in her. One of his long, thin hands buried itself in her curls, holding her as if she would disappear if he let go. To his dismay, he felt her begin to tremble, and when he looked down to see what was wrong, he saw that she was crying. Although, it was clear that her tears were not for any particular reason or sadness; she cried of panic and relief at the same time. Erik gave her the mercy of allowing her to cry, knowing that she would most surely burst if she was constrained by him. He simply held her as pure emotion flooded her senses, but mercifully, she soon stopped.

"Christine." He finally spoke once her hysteria ended, lifting her chin with his finger in order for him to look at her. "The angels wept tonight, my dear. Such a triumph has never been witnessed on this stage."

She thanked him when she had the voice to, but before her time alone spanned too long, there was a sharp tap at her door.

"Go attend to your fans," Erik joked amusedly, "I expect you tonight."

He disappeared behind the mirror, leaving her to open the door.


	14. Chapter 14

It was the managers once again.

"Mlle. Daae," Firmin began, "A finer voice has never been heard on this stage."

Christine thanked them softly, her voice regaining its usual timidity. She asked them if there was anything she could do for them, and they replied in the affirmative.

"Some of the opera's most influential donors have invited us to dinner," Moncharmin explained, "and they would like to speak to you. Would you oblige?"

She nodded, of course, and again they sighed with relief.

"Our carriage leaves in twenty minutes," they told her, thanking her softly once more before leaving her to change.

In the mere minutes it took her to take off her makeup and tame her hair, Erik had returned to her dressing room, carrying with him a gorgeous blue calico gown. He laid it in her arms silently before he left once more, having resolved the problem of what she would wear.

She quickly changed, knowing that she did not have much time, but she took a moment to look at herself in the mirror. She normally was not a vain girl, but it took her a moment to fully recognize who she was looking it. The deep blue of the gown made her ivory skin glow with radiance, while perfectly illuminating the dazzling blue of her eyes. She sang like an angel that night, and now she looked like one.

Erik watched her from behind the mirror, silently commending himself on a job well done. When she left, he returned to the house on the lake to compose and unwind, expecting her to comply with his instruction and return to him that night.

It did not take long for Christine to find the managers again, for they were actively searching for her in the opera lobby. Before she could get too lost in the chaos of the reception, they pulled her towards the front door, making sure she was safely in the carriage before they followed suit. After all, she was still needed.

They did not mean to overwhelm the girl after the biggest triumph the opera has seen in decades, but of course they had questions. First was the question of the night.

"Mlle. Daae," they called her attention from her own thoughts, "How… How did you learn to sing like that? Your voice… It is otherworldly."

She replied with a few words of thanks, for what felt like the millionth time that night, but unfortunately she did not give them any real answer. "I… I have a very good teacher."

"Damn right," Moncharmin murmured, "but who is it?"

"I am very sorry, but I cannot say," she regretfully told them. "He would like to remain anonymous."

"Anonymous? To the managers of the largest opera in France?" The two men stared dumbfoundedly at her, unable to contain their shock. "Surely there must be some mistake!"

"I am afraid there is no mistake," she assured them. "But I will send him your regards."

Firmin gave a rather indignant huff, but there was no time for more questioning. They had arrived at the bistro, where Christine was to sit and attempt to explain her success to the opera's most important patrons.

The patrons, who had to more money than they knew that to do with, had bought out the bistro for the night. For the first half hour or so, all that came from her mouth was a sea of timid thank-you's as patrons young and old poured their hearts out to her and her success. After they heard how she spoke, many of them questioned if the voice they heard that night truly belonged to her, and in response she quietly assured them that it was indeed her. Of course came the question that everyone wanted to know, and over and over again she kindly explained that she was sworn to secrecy. The ambiguity of her answer lent a sense of mystery and enigma to her very presence, only making patrons want to know more about this strange girl who appeared from nowhere and took Paris by storm. She was asked again and again to grace the patrons to another display of her voice, to which she tried desperately to say no to, but she knew that she could not desist for long. It was only after the managers pulled her aside and stated that many patrons there were willing to donate large amounts of money to hear her again that she agreed to an encore.

When she was pulled to a small stage in the front of the dining room, it was only mere seconds before a pin drop could be heard throughout the restaurant. She chose a classic French art piece, one that Erik had practiced with her quite extensively. She did not disappoint, yet again, and her encore was definitive proof that her voice was indeed hers. It was only after a few pieces that she was finally allowed to exit the stage, and although she did not let it show, her voice was exhausted.

"Christine Daae?"

A voice stirred a memory deep within the recesses of her mind, one that she had long forgotten even existed. She turned slowly, for she was used to her name being called again and again that night, but never with that level of familiarity or sincerity. When she found the owner of that voice, she immediately recognized the now-grown face of her childhood friend: Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny.


End file.
